Free A Dream of Wessex by Christopher Priest Page B

was underline the feeling.
    Until she had spoken of it with David Harkman, she had never directly acknowledged the feeling to anyone else. Not to Nathan, or Mary ... not even to Tom. But David Harkman had spoken of it himself, had pointed directly to it.
    We are different, you and I, he had said. We are different, because we are the same.
    The nursing woman appeared at the entrance to the ward, leading a small child by the hand. She walked slowly towards the bed and Julia turned anxiously towards her, but not releasing Tom’s hand.
    ‘Is the doctor coming?’ she said.
    ‘I told you, dear, he’s on his way. They’re probably busy in Dorchester, what with all the foreigners coming in.’
    ‘Then will you try to find Allen?’ Julia said. ‘Tom’s very ill. I don’t know what to do.’
    The woman reached past her, and touched the palm of her hand to the old man’s brow.
    ‘He’s not feverish. He’s just sleeping.’
    ‘Look, please find Allen! I’m very worried.’
    ‘I’ll see where he is.’
    The woman’s child had been raising himself up and down on the end of the bed, falling across his stomach and laughing, uncaring that Tom’s legs, which were directly under him, might be hurting. The woman took the child’s hand again, and walked slowly towards the door. Julia wanted to urge her again to hurry, sensing somehow that things had reached a critical stage for Tom. His head was still moving slowly from side to side, and his eyes were open, but unseeing.
    ‘Do you think he’d like some food?’ The woman had paused by the door, looking back at her.
    Julia turned towards her again. ‘No. Get Allen ... and please, for Tom’s benefit, find him as soon - ’
    As she spoke, Julia felt Tom’s hand move away from her own. Still facing the woman by the door, she reached further under the blanket, groping for him. She turned back to the bed, fearing the worst ... but totally unprepared for what she saw.
    The bed was empty.
    The blanket was still crumpled over where he had lain, and the sheet beneath it bore a trace of the residual warmth of his old body, but Tom had vanished.
    Julia gasped aloud and stood back, scraping her chair noisily.
    ‘Tom! For God’s sake, Tom!’
    The nursing woman was watching her from the door. ‘What’s going on?’
    ‘He’s gone!’
    Disbelieving, Julia threw back the blanket, as if the old man had somehow wriggled down under the bedclothes like a child playfully hiding. The blanket fell over the metal bed-end, humped on to the floor. The lower sheet still bore the impression of Tom’s body.
    ‘What are you doing in here, Julia? You know no one’s here - ’
    Julia scrambled on to the bed, kneeling on it, leaning over to the far side, in the desperate inspired hope that Tom had fallen from the bed, that he was still there... but the floor was bare.
    The woman had left the child by the door, and was striding towards her. As she reached the bed she seized Julia’s arm, and pulled her round.
    ‘If you were the one who had to make these beds…’
    ‘Tom has vanished! He was here! I was holding his hand!‘
    ‘What are you talking about? There’s no one here.’
    Julia felt like screaming at the woman. She pointed in silent agony at the bed, its emptiness self-evident proof of what she was saying.
    The woman pulled officiously at the blanket Julia had thrown back. ‘These beds have to be kept ready. What are you doing here? Are you ill?’
    The woman’s words were meaningless. Julia moved back from the bed and stood before her, still trying to express the impossibility of what had happened.
    ‘Tom! Tom Benedict! You saw him ... he was here.’
    The woman was scuffing her hand across the lower sheet, smoothing it out, as if erasing the last evidence of Tom’s presence. In one last desperate attempt, Julia foolishly snatched away the pillow, as if Tom’s frail body could somehow be concealed beneath it. The woman took it away from her, fluffed it with her hands and